


Shaking Apart

by Dewsparkle



Series: Little Stories of the Avenging Kind [13]
Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Child Death, Grief, Guilt, How Do I Tag, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Sort Of, Stephen is more than happy to provide, Tony Stark Gets a Hug, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Why Did I Write This?, this is why i can't have nice things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 20:56:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12176436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dewsparkle/pseuds/Dewsparkle
Summary: On the first mission together since the Rogue Avengers were reinstated as active Avengers, the villain of the day manages to throw something at Ironman and knocks him out of the sky just before they defeat him... only, it's not something, but someone.OR, Tony has an emotional breakdown and Stephen is there to help him through the aftermath.





	Shaking Apart

**Author's Note:**

> I... I had a dream, sort of, about this and... um? So yeah, here you go? Enjoy? I really need to stop writing these other random things and finish my other stories... OH WELL!

His hands were shaking and he couldn’t make it stop. Maybe his whole body was shaking, he couldn’t tell anymore.

It had just been another mission, some guy who had experimented on himself with chemicals and attempts at bionic enhancements, and gone on a rampage because he was insane or something. The Accords council had called in the New Avengers to deal with it and help evacuate civilians. It was the first mission they’d had since the rouges came back from Wakanda after the so-called ‘Civil War’, since most of them were finally cleared for active duty on probation.

And then… Doctor Strange had just managed to immobilize the villain as said villain picked something up and hurled it directly at Ironman. Tony’s not exactly sure what happened, but his suit was damaged and the impact had knocked him out of the sky and into the ripped-up asphalt, smacking his head on the ground hard enough to give him a mild concussion.

Then he saw the blood. It was… _everywhere_. And just in front of him, the broken and mangled body of a little girl, no more than seven or eight. Her short black curls were matted with blood and not quite managing to hide the missing piece of her skull. Knee-length green dress and black tights were ripped and bloodied, a hole with bone sticking out through the skin of her leg. Her neck and back twisted at unnatural angles.

Her wide unseeing eyes staring at him through dull hazel irises.

Vaguely, he hears the battle end while he sits there staring at the… the _corpse_ of the little girl. The little girl who had died because she’d hit him. Because she’d been _thrown_ at him.

He feels sick, he feels dizzy with horror and his vision is greying at the edges from shock. Rogers is yelling at him over the coms for not being in position and Clint broke his leg jumping off a building or something equally inconsequential over the fact that this _little kid_ is _dead_ because of _him_.

FRIDAY is speaking to him now, too, but he doesn’t know what she’s saying. He can’t move, he can’t _breathe_ and he’s not sure if it’s because he’s holding his breath or if it’s the pressure squeezing like a vice around his lungs and throat.

_He still can’t look away._

Something shifts beside him but he’s frozen, even when the helmet retracts he doesn’t move, but suddenly sound rushes into his ears and its overwhelming and it makes his head spin but _he still can’t look away_.

Someone is speaking to him as if through a long tunnel filled with cotton balls. He feels like he should recognise the voice, the smooth lit and slightly dryness of the timbre.

Then someone is crouched in front of him and blocking his line of sight to the poor dark haired little girl who was just an innocent and didn’t deserve what happened and- hands cup the sides of his face, hands that shake from where they rest against his sweaty cheeks, lightly tapping to catch his attention.

Slowly, his eyes flick up to meet cool grey staring at him in concern, mouth forming words he can’t concentrate on enough to hear. His breathing hitches and start to come in too short pants that don’t help the dizziness or sick churning in his gut. The face is growing progressively more worried, twitching thumbs rubbing soothingly under his wide eyes, dashing away the falling moisture as Tony stares back at the face, their beard neatly cut in a way that Tony _knows_ he should recognise but he can’t think, can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t put a name to the face.

His stomach flips and it’s completely involuntary when his body lurches to the side, coughing up nothing but bile that burns his throat and chokes him as he tries to breathe.

Once he’s done, still trying to breathe, arms shaking with the effort of keeping him upright even in the suit. The hands had moved from his face to support his weight, one hand on his back and the other on his front, carefully avoiding the reactor. He can’t feel it, can’t really even see it, but he knows it’s there.

Gently, he’s tugged back so he’s not leaning over his pile of sick anymore. There’s a flash of light and he’s lifted onto something, he stares at the sky for what feels like an eternity before the face returns and the shaking hand runs soothingly over his hair. They still look worried, maybe even scared, but he still can’t breathe and the blackness is creeping further into his vision. A mask briefly comes into his vision before he tastes the staleness of much needed oxygen and he allows himself to fall into darkness.

When Tony wakes up, he’s alone in his own bed, a quick glance at the other pillow shows that this is because Stephen had to attend debrief. A quick check with FRIDAY tells him that Rogers and Clint had insisted on it because Tony wasn’t available, much to their anger.

Slowly, Tony climbs out of bed and wanders out of their room and into the main living area that leads into the kitchen. Tony pauses, gaze drifting to the bar area. He shuffles over to it and numbly pulls out a decanter of… something and pours himself a glass.

He stares at the amber liquid for a long time. FRIDAY had asked if he was okay at least twice, but Tony couldn’t bring himself to force his vocal cords to work enough to speak, or even to come up with an acceptable response for her. So he says nothing and stares into his glasses.

His hand starts to shake as he raises the glass to his lips. The taste of strong scotch barely touches his lips before he’s hurling the glass at the wall with a shout, emotions churning in his chest where the reactor used to be.

He storms back to the bar and picks up the decanter and throws it at the wall. Then he picks up another, and another, and another, until there’s glass and booze everywhere. He doesn’t know when he started crying but he has.

He sinks to his knees, uncaring of the glass pressing against his legs through his soft trousers, or the stickiness and tangy smell of alcohol that fills his nose as he grips his hair and presses his forehead into the floor as a wave of grief drowns him. He’s still shaking and he doesn’t really care anymore.

His hands hurt, as do his knees and shins. His forehead stings and his face is flushed from the force of his emotions finally catching up with him.

A little girl was dead because of him, and all Rogers could think about was damn Clint and his damn broken leg because the archer just expects that Tony will always be there to catch him when he decides to take a flying leap. Where was he before? Where were all of them? They betrayed and abandoned him and left him to die in the cold and now all they care about is themselves and not the seven-year-old that was thrown at him like a _thing_ like she didn’t _matter_. And _oh god_ he didn’t even know her name…

There’s a shout of his name behind him, but Tony just shakes his head and refuses to look up. They crouch beside him on the floor and rest tremoring hands on his tense shoulders, squeezing to try and get him to look up. He shakes his head again frantically.

“No, no, no…” He whispers desperately, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry…”

“Tony.” Stephen’s voice is soft and gentle, the familiar lit loosening something inside the hollow ache where the reactor used to be. “Tony, can you look at me, please?”

He shakes his head, too ashamed to a million other things he can’t identify right now but he doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to see Stephen blame him too, even if it is his fault. He should have- should have…

“Tony.” Stephen says more forcefully and he can’t suppress the minute flinch that rocks through him, even as one hand starts to rub circles into his back. “Tony, please? Just for a moment, I just want you to look at me for a second, okay.”

The hand still on his should gently but firmly pushes up and back, and he doesn’t have the energy to fight the motion. Once he’s mostly upright, eyes tightly closed, the hand moves from his back to lift up his chin.

“Hey.” Stephen says softly and Tony opens his eyes, taking in the barely hidden worry and concern under the small smile. “There we go. See, that’s better, isn’t it?”

Tony doesn’t respond but Stephen doesn’t seem to mind, he just grabs one of Tony’s hands and rests it against his chest, telling Tony to copy his breathing. He doesn’t want to argue, to fight, so he tries his best.

Once his breathing is under control Stephen pulls him to his feet, supporting him when his knees give out. The cloak drifts off the other man's shoulders and wraps around his own, making him feel warm and safe. He presses his face into Stephens' shoulder and starts to cry again, more silent this time.

With the cloak and Stephen supporting his weight, they make their way back into their room and Stephen carefully lowers him down, cloak still wrapped around him protectively. Stephen steps back and quickly makes his way to the en-suite bathroom. Tony rolls onto his side and stares blankly at his dresser.

Stephen returns with a washcloth, a bowl of water, some bandages, a pair of tweezers and a packet of antiseptic wipes. Stephen settles down beside him and begins to methodically clean the cuts from his forehead and remove any small bits of glass, despite the tremors in his hands, and only using magic when he had to.

He repeats the process with his hands and forearms, then onto his knees and shins. He helps Tony into a new pair of trousers and a shirt that’s not soaked with alcohol. Once all this is done, he strips down and into his own sleep clothes before sliding into bed next to Tony and wrapping an arm around him from behind.

Tony turns so he can hide himself against Stephens' chest and balls his fists in his shirt, trying to muffle the sounds threatening to escape. Stephen just kisses the top of his head, rubs comforting circles into his back, and whispers a string of soothing nonsense into his hair amidst assuring him it wasn’t his fault.

Despite himself, Tony wants to believe what Strange is telling him. He hates himself for it, but he wants to. He wants it to not be his fault but he can still see her broken body as if it were still sitting in front of him. He curls his knees up further towards his chest and buries his face in Stephens.

Exhaustion quickly wins out and Tony falls asleep held in the protective and _safe_ embrace of his sorcerer and his cloak. Maybe, maybe tomorrow will be better. Maybe tomorrow he’ll be able to accept the possibility that it wasn’t his fault. Even if he doesn’t, at least he knows Stephen will be there to hold him before he starts to shake apart again and destroy something more important than all the liquor he’d found in his bar.


End file.
